Dreams and Memories
by Umbrella-ella
Summary: 'But for now, as his lids flicker shut, weighed down by insurmountable grief, the ache in his heart lessens as he dreams of his son embracing him one last time. Dreams and memories are all he has left, after all.' In which Brian Williams mourns the loss of his son.


_A/N: I started this literally right after _Angels Take Manhattan, _but for some reason, I could not bring myself to close this story, simply because it meant finally saying goodbye to Rory, the man who waited 2000 years, Amy, the girl who waited, and Brian (who somehow along the way became my favorite), the man who watered the plants. So, here you are. _

_(Oh, one additional note: this was written prior to the P.S. reading, so it's a bit non-canon.) I've never written in present-tense— I usually dislike it, but it felt appropriate to have this 'in the moment' kind of story, so if there are any errors I need to clear up with tenses, feel free to let me know. Enjoy! _

He is about to leave for Bali when the Doctor steps out of his big blue time box, which had noisily parked itself on the perfectly trimmed flowers— the TARDIS— he vaguely recalls before noting with a sudden panic that his son… his boy, has not stepped out of the machine, even as the Doctor has already made it halfway across the neatly trimmed, well-kept lawn. Coupled with the intense, gut-numbing look the Doctor has (as if something terrible had happened), Brian knows it can't be good. So, he forces himself to take care upon setting the watering can securely on the counter before his hands start to shake with worry.

As if no invitation is needed— it isn't, this is their house, he'd just come by to water the plants before he left— the Doctor steps into the sun room, where Brian stands, clutching the counter until his knuckles go white. Through the door he steps, his long, so very skinny frame coming to rest as he leans against the wall nearby. Brian cannot see any remainder of the jovial, fresh-faced youth that Amy and Rory had gone off with. Instead, it as if the man in front of him has aged ten years for every day he's been gone. The way his shoulders slump, Brian thinks, can't be good. Even so, his eyes flick back to the TARDIS, where he hopes— no, prays— to see his son and his wife, his Rory, his little boy, and the fiery young woman who so clearly loved him (in her own way, of course). But he doesn't. He blinks. Not a thing is out of place. But Amy and Rory; they still haven't come out.

When Brian speaks, his voice is small, brittle, so very breakable. Brian has to clear his throat just to be sure that the pitiful, warbling voice is really his. It is.  
"Why aren't they coming out, Doctor?"

The young man with the serious face and the silly bowtie doesn't speak, simply runs a shaking hand through his thick hair.

Suddenly, Brian sees a woman come across the lawn— she is an angel.

She must be.

Her curly, blond hair, her strong cheekbones.

She is the spitting image of Brian's long dead wife, Rory's dear mother. For a moment, a flicker of grief and pained optimism passes on his face, but as she closes the gap, she realizes that those are not his wife's eyes. Those are Amy's eyes, deep, rich, and dark, holding a sadness that cannot possibly be explained. The woman joins the Doctor, looping her fingers through his gently, offering a squeeze of reassurance in a time of obvious grief. Though Brian still waits for an answer, he knows it won't come for a while. He is content to wait. He will wait a hundred years if he needs to. He looks at the disheveled youth that stands in the sun room, strained and looking as though he holds the weight of a thousand worlds on his shoulders.

Brian then realizes something very integral about himself.

He realizes he doesn't care about how sad the Doctor looks, or who his friend (who is so much more than that, obviously) is.

He doesn't care about the weight of a thousand worlds— he would carry them himself if it meant getting answers. He needs to know where his boy is. And he doesn't give a rat's arse what the Doctor feels. Brian's boy is not here, he is not sitting at the table in the kitchen eating biscuits, and his wife is not scolding him for taking out the bin on the wrong day— no, Rory is not here.

Brian steels himself, because no matter how worried he is, Brian is still a little scared of the thin man with the mysterious blue box. After all, he did commit murder— rightfully, so, yes, of course, but still. Stepping up to the sad man, he draws himself up to his full height, nose to nose, and looks the Doctor square in the eye.

"Where are they?" This time, Brian's voice was strong, firm, unyielding. The Doctor, whose steely eyes had maintained eye contact with Brian's, looked down, looking everywhere but him— it is then that Brian realizes that no matter how old this very young looking lad is (nine hundred, wasn't it?), he must have seen some terrible things to have eyes that weary.

"…Brian… Mr. Williams— I— I'm so sorry. They're gone." Wide, watery orbs glistening with tears meet confused green eyes, so like his son's.

"You mean..." Brian can't quite finish the statement, the words weigh heavy on the tip of his tongue, dry, prickly. An almost imperceptible nod follows, and the senior Williams' world crashes down.

Brian backs away, his feet suddenly numb. He doesn't feel himself fall to the ground, doesn't remember the tears that wet his face. Instead, he feels slender arms wrap around him, feels curls press into his face as the familiar, yet so unfamiliar woman holds him, feels his back press against the cool counter cabinets, feels the knobs of the drawers dig into his shoulders. Yet, he doesn't care.

The pain is good. Cuts through the numbness he feels. Thoughts swim in his head at the speed of light, and yet, he can't quite form a sentence.

He convulses, heaving with dry sobs that rack his body, screams intelligibly at the man in his ridiculous little suit with his ridiculous little box, yells things he will not remember at the woman that holds him close to her, desperate to hear that this is not true, that he will wake up in a little while and hear the laughter of Amy and Rory coming home, finally, after one last adventure with the funny man in his travelling time box.

But he doesn't wake up. He can't.

Instead, something is ripping him apart from the inside, clawing at the walls of his heart, exploding internally. It is killing him inside, this burning pain, suffocating him.

Finally, as the darkness renders them blind, Brian moves— the Doctor moves to follow his footsteps, but the curly-haired woman catches his sleeve quickly.

Brian feels heavy, immobile. It takes an eternity, just to get to the back door of their house— it is his now, Brian supposes.

"Brian…" The Doctor speaks behind him as the tired man stands in the doorway, back turned to the world. Brian continues into the house, shutting the door firmly behind him.

The parted curtains scratch against his cheek as the elder— the _only_— Williams watches the Doctor stand aimlessly, stock-still, for a long period of time (he's not counting), then, at the urging of his companion, heads towards the Police Box that flattened the roses. Brian sees the Doctor cast a last, lingering glance towards the house before finally shutting the TARDIS door and wheezing away.

Brian knows he'll have bruises in the morning from the cabinet handles, but he'll have to deal with a lot more than that. He has to wake up to a world in which his son is no longer there— has to deal with questions from the neighbors, from family. He'll have to commission a headstone for their empty graves. Perhaps that's what kills him the most, the idea that he can't see them one last time.

As Brian lays on the couch numbly, he lets himself examine the photographs that hang on the far wall, just above the desk, lets himself drift to sleep, dreaming impossible dreams, dreams that, when he wakes in the morning, will leave his eyes red-rimmed.

But for now, as his lids flicker shut, weighed down by insurmountable grief, the ache in his heart lessens as he dreams of his son embracing him one last time.

Dreams and memories are all he has left, after all.

_I hope you enjoyed it! Please, do take the time to review— as always constructive criticism is welcome!_


End file.
